“You’ve na’ tortured women and children?” Rafe demanded of his uncle.
Archibald had the grace to look ashamed.
“They’re only a ragtag lot of MacDougalls,” Dianne said reasonably, wrinkling her nose daintily.
“We did what we had t’do,” Baen said belligerently. “We told them they could save their own lives if they gave up the names of the leaders of the outlaws and where we might find them.”
“And when they didn’t?” Rafe roared, getting to his feet. “Did you torture them unto death?”
Baen leaped to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his dirk. A vein bulged in his temple and his features distorted into an ugly sneer.
“Aye, and I’d do it again if it would bring me the leaders of the bastards that thieve our cattle and lead us on a merry chase. They’re naught but MacDougalls anyway, traitors and turncoats.”
“I’ll not do it, Uncle,” Rafe glared at Archibald. “I’ll not tell my men to torture anyone and I’ll not let any other man torture half-starved women and children simply to gain information. There are other ways. If this is what ye require of me, then we leave on the morrow.”
“Now, now, Rafe, you always was a hotheaded lad with your heart in the wrong place.” From his seat, Archibald reached out an appealing hand to his nephew. “I’m not asking you to torture women and children. I merely wish you to hunt the outlaws any way you can.”
Rafe towered over the aging, dissipated man, weighing his words. “Hear me well, Uncle. I will not use such tactics against your villagers, especially the women and children, even if they are only MacDougalls, nor will I abide torture while I’m here.”
“It will be as you say,” Archibald said, his one good eye twitching.
“And we’ll do what we can, every man of us, to improve the conditions of the villagers. MacDougall clansmen or not you’d win their allegiance if you fed them well and treated them with some benevolence.”
“Benevolence!” Baen sneered. “You’ve not brought a fightin’ man to help us, Archibald, but a mewling, squeamish maiden. Why don’t you invite the whole bloody village into the castle to live with us if you’re so worried over them.”
Archibald sat looking from one man to the other, seemingly caught between them, unable to say yeah or nay.
“My men and I will ride at dawn,” Rafe said quietly.
“Nay, Rafe,” his uncle wheedled. “Don’t be like that, lad. I need you here.”
“You don’t need him,” Baen shouted, rounding on the cowering old man. “I told you not to send for him. You have me. I’ll take care of things for you.”
Rafe saw fear in the old man’s eyes, and for the first time, understood his dilemma. Weak and ailing, Archibald could not stand against Baen who was slowly encroaching on the old man’s domain. He placed a hand on Archibald’s slumped shoulder.
“I will not leave you, Uncle. But I’m to be in charge and things will be done as I say.”
“Nay!” Baen shouted, his eyes wild. “I’ve been in charge here, and I’ll not stand aside for an usurper such as you.”
“Then raise your sword, Baen, for there’s not room enough for both of us.” Rafe drew his sword and faced the man.
Baen looked around the room then back to his challenger.
Dianne squealed and rose from the table, going to cower in a corner. The rest of the men had risen and moved away from them, leaving a wide, open space. With a snarl, Baen wrenched a claymore from the wall and, without further warning, charged. Rafe leaped clear and took his stance. He was at a clear disadvantage with the lightweight sword against the heavier claymore, but the lighter weapon had its advantages, as well.
Baen charged again and again. Rafe sidestepped and brought his sword up in a sweeping stroke that cut through Baen’s quilted shirt and brought blood. The heavier man bellowed, then steadied himself and advanced with more caution, both hands clasping his weapon. The men dodged and feinted until Rafe found himself pinned against the wall. Baen swung his claymore, cutting through Rafe’s slender blade as if it were nothing more than a willow switch.
Rafe threw aside the pieces and dodged beyond the lumbering clansman, turning to face him empty handed. He heard Gare’s cry of dismay and saw him reach for his own claymore, but some of the men who served under Baen stepped forward, effectively blocking him. A blur of movement caught Rafe’s attention.
Annie, the ragged goose girl who’d joined the other beggars and needy in the castle hall to catch the bread troughs and bones from the high table, now darted close, extending a claymore. Rafe grabbed it and turned to block Baen’s next blow, which would have cleaved the girl in two. Quickly, she darted out of the way, hugging the wall as her large eyes watched the two men battle.
Baen had not yet recovered himself from his lunge and Rafe took advantage to swing his weapon. It bit deep into Baen’s shoulder. He dropped his blade and sank to his knees. His eyes clouded with pain and rage as he waited for the deathblow.
“I have no need for your life,” Rafe said and threw the claymore away from him.
Several of Archibald’s men ran to help the injured man.
Rafe looked around for the goose girl to give her his thanks, but she’d disappeared. Probably gone to fetch the midwife, he decided, when that estimable woman arrived in the great hall. She examined Baen’s wound and packed and dressed it before his men hauled him away to the barracks.
“You were so brave, Rafe. You fairly took my breath away.” Dianne handed him a cup of wine and he downed the contents before returning it to her. She let her fingers brush against his as she took the goblet, then ran her hand over his arm.
“You’re very strong and agile, cousin,” she said softly, her bold gaze meeting his. She leaned closer, allowing her soft breast to brush against him as she laughed breathlessly. Her fingers curled around his arm possessively.
“Rafe, lad, you’re all right,” Archibald called, and Rafe crossed to him, Dianne still clinging to his arm. The two men stared at each other and Archibald inclined his head. “It shall be as you say, nephew.”
“I’ll do all I can to make conditions better here both for you and for the clansmen you’ve conquered. I’ll leave tomorrow to ride your borders and measure your holdings.” Gently, he disentangled himself from Dianne’s clasp. “Forgive me for such behavior before a lady, but if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for tomorrow. I plan to ride early, come morning.”
“I shall miss you, Rafe,” she said huskily and pushed her bottom lip into a fetching pout.
“I’ll carry that thought with me, m’lady.” He bowed and left the hall. His thoughts were of Baen. He’d made a bad enemy this day; he’d have to watch his back.
But when he reached the barracks, he found that Baen had left along with half of Archibald’s men. Rafe tried to tell himself it was just as well, but he felt uneasy. The defection of Archibald’s men left him short of enough soldiers to patrol the borders, supervise the planting of crops and protect the castle and environs properly. And where had Baen and the deserters gone now? Would Baen ride against Rafe and try to reclaim his position at the castle? Rafe narrowed his eyes and considered his options at Dunollie. He was surrounded by enemies, and he couldn’t be sure who they were or who led them. But one thing was certain. This day, the little goose girl had displayed her loyalty, and he was heartily grateful.
Chapter Three
The afternoon lay in a golden haze over the hillsides. Father Cowan had taken the cattle to the upper pastures, and Annie knew he’d be fast asleep against a sun-heated stone. She urged the geese into the stick-fence enclosure and made sure they had water.
Ever since the night, she’d passed the claymore to Rafe Campbell, she’d been troubled by her action. He was the enemy. Baen would have rid them of this new conqueror if she hadn’t interfered. When the story made its way to Bryce, he’d railed at her. Even Father Cowan had been snappish, and she’d tried her best to mollify their anger, pointing out all she’d heard at the table that night and her conclusion that of the two commanders, Rafe was the lesser of two evils. Still doubting her wisdom, they’d finally accepted her explanation, but she’d not satisfied her own misgivings.
Sighing, she trudged to the stone hut she shared with the old priest. Her duties, both as a crippled, mute goose girl and as leader of the MacDougall clansmen, sat heavy on her shoulders this day. Would Rafe Campbell bring a better way of life to her clansmen and would they ever bend to the yoke of Campbell rule? Must the men and women of the MacDougall clan always fight and suffer as they had over the past years or would they, one day, enjoy tranquility? Not with the cursed Campbells holding their precious lands, most vowed.
The Campbell warrior had taken his men to patrol the borders nearly a fortnight ago and had not yet returned and for that she’d been grateful as she tried to sort through her feelings.
No one knew where Baen and the Campbell deserters had gone, though rumor had it they’d ridden east in the hopes of finding allies among the lesser clans. Only a few guards had been left behind to attend to the castle’s defenses should they be needed, but the land lay quiet and at peace.
Taking a clean tunic, she made her way through the woods to her favorite bathing pool. Yellow sunlight streamed through green branches like a golden veil. The pond lay cool and dark, its surface mirror-like in the serene air. She shucked off her dirty gown and with it, her wearisome façade as a crippled mute suitable only for tending geese. For a while, she could walk without a limp and stand upright. For a while, she could simply be a pretty young maiden frolicking by a forest pond.
Standing on a boulder, she made a perfect dive into the water and surfaced, her head sleek and fair. She swam until she was tired and her thoughts no longer nagged at her for allying herself with an enemy. She floated in the still, cool water and thought of the tall, broad-shouldered warrior. She had made the right decision when she’d handed him the claymore. He’d said he would not torture and kill as Baen and his men had done. That alone was an improvement in the lot of the MacDougall clansmen.
Still he was the enemy, and she must never forget that.
She refused to dwell any further on how bonnie he was. Briskly, she set about washing herself and clambered out onto the boulder to let the sun dry her hair. She felt such joy in this perfect day that she could not resist singing. Her voice rose, pure and sweet through the trees.
* * * *
Exhausted and disheartened, Rafe guided his mount through the cool, deep woodlands, preoccupied by all he’d seen across his uncle’s holdings. Everywhere he’d gone he’d found poor and starving peasants, their resources depleted, their hope gone. Even yet he could see the pinched faces of their children, staring with lethargic disregard at the visitors, their thin bodies barely clothed. He’d ordered cows to be killed and the meat apportioned to each family, and he’d left behind men to help them repair huts and plow fields.
Now he and Gare, with a small force of his remaining men, rode back to Dunollie to plunder his uncle’s storehouse and send seed to each village and farmer. Fields must be planted if the peasants were to make it through the winter. It would take years for the land and people to recover from the neglect. He drew a breath.
“You don’t seem happy to be returning to your uncle’s castle,” Gare observed. “We don’t have to stay. We could ride west and reach Innischonnel Castle in a fortnight.”
“Aye, and I’m tempted,” Rafe replied, wearily. “But I’ve made a promise to my uncle, and I’ll not leave him and the people here to the mercies of Baen and his ilk.”
“I feared you’d say that.” Gare sounded downcast and morose.
Rafe regarded his friend and lieutenant. “You need a bath, Gare,” he bellowed. “You’ve the smell of horse dung to you and then you need a soft bed warmed by a buxom and willing lass.”
“Or a distant cousin with a winsome way about her.” Gare laughed. Suddenly, both men froze, their hands going to the hilts of their swords.
The silence of the woods had been broken by a sound so purely sweet both men drew up their mounts to listen. The silvery, bell-like tones poured over them like a benediction, taking away their sorrow and fatigue. Then it died away.
“’Twas a wood sprite,” Gare said low. “Some say if you catch one, it will grant you any wish to be set free.”
Rafe’s features relaxed in a grin. “I don’t believe such things,” he declared. “More likely it’s a milkmaid seeking a stray.”
“Or an ugly hag of a witch waiting to lay her spell on you,” Gare declared without any real conviction.
“Then I shall have to see for myself,” Rafe said. “If I’m lucky, it will be a milkmaid, and I’ll not have to wait for nightfall to ease my needs. Will you ride with me?”
“Aye, and if it’s a witch bent on doing mischief, I’ll have no fear of the hereafter.” Gare tugged at the neck of his shirt. “Nor is my head easily turned by fairies and wood sprites and the like.”
“Nay, it takes a rather more substantial lass to do that,” Rafe jested. He signaled his men to wait, and he and Gare rode into the woods in the direction of the bewitching voice.
“Shh.” Rafe held up a hand then dismounted.
Gare followed. Carefully, they crept through the woods. The singing had begun again, the sound even more beautiful as they drew closer. At last, they were able to peer through the underbrush and see a lone woman seated on a rock, her back to them, her bare shoulders and rounded hips so perfect, she might have been carved from alabaster. Her legs were drawn up, her arms raised as she finger combed her golden hair. Rafe watched, enraptured.
“Stay here,” he ordered, his tone strangely guttural and oddly protective. Without glancing at his friend, he moved from their hiding place and walked toward the woman.
At first, she didn’t hear him approach. When she did, she swung around, her eyes widening in surprise. Her hair flew about her and settled over her shoulder and one sweetly curved breast. The other was bare to his gaze, pale pink with a dark-rose areola. Her expression was tight with alarm as she studied him, then her features softened and he saw she was no longer afraid.